


Shift (When the Barrel's In Your Mouth Remix)

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Community: remix_goes_wild, Gunplay, Interracial Relationship, Kinks, M/M, POV Male Character, Pain Kink, Power Play, Pre-Canon, Present Tense, Remix, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-12
Updated: 2011-04-12
Packaged: 2017-10-18 00:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/182831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Roque and Clay, sometimes what they have and what they need are the same thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shift (When the Barrel's In Your Mouth Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shift](https://archiveofourown.org/works/101840) by [zillah975](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zillah975/pseuds/zillah975). 



> Written for prompt 1 of the [](http://remix-goes-wild.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**remix_goes_wild**](http://remix-goes-wild.dreamwidth.org/) challenge.

The slow, lazy glide of Clay's fingers on his cock isn't what makes his heartbeat quicken or his blood pulse in a hot rush that he can feel in the throb of his dick when he squeezes it. Roque's turned on, too. Hard to hide when the towel is tented and obvious, inches from Clay's mouth, but Roque's not giving in. Not yet. Not even when Clay tells him, "Come on," making it enticing and sweet with another slow drag up his shaft.

What does it for Clay — what keeps him on the floor with his cock in his fist and a bead on Roque's erection — is Roque's fingers on the piece, a subtle, flexing shift that reminds Clay why he's on his knees for his SIC. It's 'cause they both want him there, the point driven home when Roque, whose eyes haven't left Clay's face yet, moves the gun.

The safety's on, but that doesn't stop the thrill from raking up Clay's spine when Roque traces the rough stubble on his chin with the barrel and then aims, steady and sure, pressing the muzzle to Clay's jaw. It's not a shot that would kill, but that's not the point when the dig of the Desert Eagle sends a spike of adrenaline surging through Clay like he's dangling by the strap of the Heckler & Koch again. His chest and shoulder still ache, the skin a little tender from the sudden snap and jerk when Roque caught him.

Clay needs that feeling again.

"Roque." His tongue feels thick, his throat so tight that Roque's name grates up dry, comes out rough, and Clay's so goddamn close but not close enough. Not nearly as close as he wants to be. "Please." The word shudders through him, and he tightens his fingers around the base of his cock, not yet ready to lose it. "I'm asking."

Roque's nod is like a breath, and even before he voices his, "Okay," Clay is jerking off the towel and moving his mouth in a hot, greedy slide down Roque's dick.

He wants to gag on it and curls his tongue around the thick length, grabbing Roque's hips to drag him forward. Clay's not surprised when they meet halfway, Clay swallowing and Roque shoving deeper, both of them trying to claim what they can 'til they both get what they want.

Clay's the only one driven silent by it, mouth stuffed so full that the breath he pulls in burns down his nostrils. He can't respond to what Roque's saying or the way Roque holds the back of his neck, the grip of the gun digging in at the base of Clay's skull. Clay keeps his jaw loose and lets Roque fuck his mouth in long, punishing strokes that bring tears to his eyes, has relief swelling huge and open in his chest 'til it swallows up the clawing-dragging-itch beneath his skin.

So when Roque lets go, it's too soon, and Clay has to let loose a cough, mouth slick with spit, his jaw sore, and his cock so fucking hard it hurts.

He grabs Roque before he can retreat too far and pulls him back, lets him know, "Not dying." And he hopes Roque realizes that he never has any intention to, but it looks like the only thing Roque's willing to believe right now is the rasp of his, "Come here."

The Vaseline that Clay pulls out of his pocket earns a laugh that rumbles deep out of both of them before it settles down warm in the smile that they share. Then it earns him a whole hell of a lot more when Roque twists him around and drags his pants and briefs down to his ankles. Roque doesn't take this slow either, just shoves two slick fingers deep into Clay's ass, making his breath hitch and pleasure slam into him like a gut punch.

The blunt tip of Roque's cock pushing, thrusting, _shoving_ , 'til it grounds out with a slap of Roque's balls against Clay's skin, draws a growl out of Clay's already-ruined throat. He drops his shoulders, buries his face in his arms, and rocks back for more. And Roque gives it to him, hard and harder, long and deep, riding roughshod over Clay just the way Clay likes it, wants it, needs it sometimes. Clay loses himself in the sharp, tangled cycle of tumbling forward and Roque catching him, the thrill of the gun still clutched in Roque's hand, leaving an imprint on Clay's hip.

When Roque finally curls his fingers tight around Clay's cock, Clay drops and lands hard with Roque's name strangled in his throat, beating through in every ache. He has to bite his arm to keep from shouting when Roque's teeth sink into the back of his neck, the sting moving in an electric-hot-burning wave that makes Clay feel like he's falling for real this time around. Roque's weight collapsing on top of him only makes it sweeter and so does the bright, flashing sting in his knees, the skin probably chafed raw from the carpet. Feels good, though. So good Clay almost passes out where he is.

"You need to shower," Roque rumbles above him.

"Don't need a shower," Clay says, breathing in deep when Roque rolls off of him. "Need a nap."

Clay grunts when Roque hauls him up, feels too lazy and slow to do much but lean against him a while, let the soreness settle deep into every muscle. "You need to move your ass."

He can't help the smirk that stretches his lips when he pushes away and bends down to unlace his boots so he can get his pants off. "Want another shot at it?"

Roque mutters something under his breath, shoots Clay a glare that he answers with a bigger grin, and then they shuffle to the shower.

The water's not hot, but Clay's running hot enough that it feels good sliding over him. His knees are chafed just like he thought they'd be. Roque won't let him pick off the scraps of skin hanging loose, but it's a low-order concern. The sting feels good, flashes constant each time he moves, like the bite on the back of his neck.

Right now, he's happy to stand in the tub, face-to-face with Roque, his hands curled loose around Roque's arms and Roque's hands settled low on his hips. They breathe and let the water wash away three day's worth of grime and bullshit, so all they've got left when they step out is each other.


End file.
